


Accidental Stimulation

by Gem_Gem, KittieHill



Series: 31 Days of Porn challenge 2017 [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Porn Challenge 2017, Accidental Stimulation, Masturbation, Sass and Humour, Sensitive Sherlock, Sherlock wanks to John's voice, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 13:35:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10922841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem, https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/pseuds/KittieHill
Summary: “Nothing new in the inbox for you?” he asked.The soft rippling gust of John’s warm breath tickled as it played the hair at Sherlock’s nape, and Sherlock shifted his shoulders in response, adjusting his sitting position on the chair, “Quite the opposite actually. That’s the problem,” he groused, frowning when another caress of John’s breath had a spark shooting up his spine, stirring some heat at his pelvis and face. What was that? He’d not felt such a thing before. Had he? Sherlock hunched his shoulders, leaning on the table, over his laptop, and cleared his throat.





	Accidental Stimulation

Sherlock sighed quietly and rubbed at his face in irritation. Why were people so dim-witted? Or rather, why did they _have_ to be so dim-witted? Why couldn’t they just think, for a moment, rationally and logically, and take stock on the _facts_ instead of listening to the illogical and irrational emotions rattling around in their brains? He sighed again and with a loud few taps of his fingers, deleted twenty-six new emails asking for his assistance. All the same. Every single last one of them. All simple and maddening and pathetic. God the world could be so tedious! Refreshing the page only brought more of them. More pointless, stupid emails about people’s pointless, stupid issues.

John wandered in through the kitchen from the bathroom, clad only in his dressing gown and rubbing a towel through his freshly washed hair. He watched as Sherlock refreshed the page, deleted the emails and refreshed the page again. Sherlock could feel him quietly staring, noticing Sherlock's obvious discontent with each rough, loud press of his fingers. Normally, when Sherlock was in a particularly dreadful mood, John would leave him to it, which Sherlock both hated and loved in equally measure, but today wasn’t that bad of a day, despite Sherlock simmering anger. So John wandered over behind the desk chair and leaned down, almost leaning completely over Sherlock's shoulder.

“Nothing new in the inbox for you?” he asked.

The soft rippling gust of John’s warm breath tickled as it played the hair at Sherlock’s nape, and Sherlock shifted his shoulders in response, adjusting his sitting position on the chair, “Quite the opposite actually. That’s the problem,” he groused, frowning when another caress of John’s breath had a spark shooting up his spine, stirring some heat at his pelvis and face. What was that? He’d not felt such a thing before. Had he? Sherlock hunched his shoulders, leaning on the table, over his laptop, and cleared his throat.

“No, hold on, there's one,” John said as he leaned in closer, touching the screen with his index finger and also pressing his chest to Sherlock's back. It put his ear directly at the side of Sherlock's nape. The soft curve of it, the warm, still somewhat damp skin of it, almost made Sherlock’s eyes roll up. It made the heat pulse and the fine hair on his body stand on end. “There, that one. Antique theft? Sounds like your sort of thing.”

John turned his head ever so slightly in question, eyes still on the screen, and the angle directed his next breath to rush down Sherlock’s neck. All at once the heat that had merely smouldered suddenly ignited and rushed in a hot, lick of tantalising pleasure. It flooded his face and his groin, making his flaccid penis twitch and thicken, and Sherlock gaped at the laptop with an unfocused gaze and a hitching, huff of breath. What was happening? What had happened? What _was_ that?

“Boring,” he finally got out, once he could think and talk and breathe again.

“Well, I'm sure we could find you something to do in the flat. Plenty of housework,” John teased, pulling back. Sherlock could _feel_ John’s eyes on him, on the back of his neck, at the small curls, which flicked around the base of his skull. Therefore, when John twisted the largest curl around his finger, tugging lightly, it both was expected and utterly not so. “You could do with a haircut. Your hair is getting too long. It's going all Shirley Temple.”

Sherlock stiffened and twitched simultaneously as John looped the curl around his digit, face scorching and heart thundering, “Who?” he husked, trying for nonchalant as his penis swelled and his body shuddered in clear, palpable, arousal. This was new. This was very, _very_ new. What was this? God, he could smell John. He was hyper aware and hypersensitive, to everything about the man. He needed to move, to leave. This wasn’t right. Wasn’t what had ever happened before. What _was_ this?

John scoffed but didn't seem surprised at Sherlock's apparent lack of popular culture knowledge. Sherlock could hear him go back to drying his hair off again and John's shampoo and freshly washed body seemed to invade Sherlock's senses. Hints of apple and spices rolled off the doctor with each rumpling, towelling bunch of his hair. It was maddening. It was overwhelming. It was almost provocative.

John stopped and abruptly invaded Sherlock's personal space again, a grin stretching his face when Sherlock flicked his gaze to him, “Aha! Murder! There… surely that's good for you?--Oh wait… never mind, its the death of a hamster. Ignore it.”

“That shan’t be too difficult,” Sherlock murmured as he shivered. Although he wished the same could be said for John’s presence, his scent, and his every exhalation. Sherlock closed his eyes while the reaching, caressing fingers of John’s words, of his breath, slipped down his collar, teasing his skin while the heavenly scent of the doctor enveloped him. Goose bumps rose on Sherlock’s throat, on his shoulders, and he swallowed hard when his nipples puckered, glancing down to find them straining the fabric of his shirt.

Obliviously, John continued to ramble about various topics, various emails, trying to make conversation with Sherlock whilst he continued to dry himself off. Sherlock could hardly take in what he was saying. Could only quake with each inadvertent brush of his body, his skin, and the air from his lungs. It was only whenJohn hissed and opened his dressing gown to his waist, which Sherlock found his focus zeroing and locking.

Ensuring his genitals were still covered, John turned to Sherlock's left to show off the exposed skin, “Do I have a spot or something in the middle of my back? It's really sore. Can you look for me?”

Caught between being eager for the distraction from the throb of his growing erection, the tingling of intense arousal, and the knowledge that looking would probably only cause more harm than good, Sherlock turned in his chair to look. He was correct in his assumption. The sight made things much worse. “Uh. Yes. It’s a bruise. Nothing more,” he mumbled, his gaze barely able to stick to one place on John’s bared back. There was so much to see. So much to admire. Had he seen the scar on his shoulder before?

John hummed, reaching behind and scratching his back, momentarily dropping his dressing gown to show off one firm, whiter-than-the-rest arse cheek, and chuckled gently. Somehow, without looking, John knew exactly what Sherlock was gaping at as he pulled the dressing gown back up and turned to face him, “Not the prettiest,” he said, motioning to his scar. “But I suppose it's a decent souvenir, ‘I went to Afghanistan and all I got was this lousy gunshot wound.’”

Sherlock stared at him, unable to do much else, and swallowed thickly, “Yes,” he said under his breath, not entirely sure what he was agreeing to. He couldn’t think past the fog of arousal. It had been years since he’d had trouble with such things. He thought he had it under control, under lock and key, shut down in the dark corners of his mind, but apparently not. Why now? Why this moment?

“Right well, I better go get dressed. Can't just lounge around here all day in my pyjamas. I'm not you,” John joked, and before Sherlock could do more than flinch in objection, John had grabbed a handful of the curls at the bottom of Sherlock's neck and was tugging firmly, but playfully at them. “And book in for a haircut.”

The groan that rumbled from his throat was almost deafeningly loud in the space between them, amplified faintly by the tiles of the kitchen, and Sherlock blanched as it seemed to echo around them. He was fully erect now, pressing awkwardly against the zip of his trousers, and his nipples were somehow, suddenly, sensitive to every skim and fold of his shirt as he breathed. Sherlock felt hot and shaky and frustrated, and couldn’t find it in himself to look at John. What had he done? What should he _do_? How could he turn this around and make it different, make it something else?

“Er… Sherlock?” John said tentatively. “Everything alright...?”

“I don’t need a haircut,” Sherlock tried, forcing his tone to be overly exasperated. Perhaps he could play the sound off as one of frustration instead? A groan of irascibility, surely that would make sense?

John narrowed his eyes, his attention entirely focused on Sherlock now. Clearly, Sherlock’s plan hadn’t worked. Not when John decided to investigate further, retracing his steps and tugging on Sherlock's hair again, “Your hair is too long,” he said, watching Sherlock's reaction. Oh, clever John. Clever, amazing, infuriating John. Why now of all times? Why must he be so astute now?

The sudden, involuntary, hitching intake of breath in response to John’s curious, scrutinising move, could only be half muffled, but Sherlock hoped John hadn’t noticed and tried not to squirm as his nipples tingled and a bead of pre-ejaculate soaked into the front of his underwear, “It’s…fine,” he got out through gritted teeth, moving to swat John away. The move was meant to be overly irritable, was meant to be quick and sharp, but instead it was a trembling, clumsy flail, and Sherlock’s hand collided with John’s wrist, clammy palm first.

“You're sweaty,” John commented, his eyes squinting with his heightening curiosity. He put his hand to Sherlock's forehead, obviously felt the hot, sweat beading his hairline there too, and frowned. “Are you coming down with something? Are you not feeling well?” He continued to touch various parts of Sherlock's flushed face and neck, still frowning. Sherlock had to get away from him. “Do you want me to get my bag? I can have a look at you?”

“No! No. Just…go away,” Sherlock snapped, avoiding eye contact. He couldn’t look at him, not when each touch, each word, each shift of his body, encouraged and stoked the ever-growing desire within him. He had to leave. He had to leave now.

“Why do you make everything so hard?” John huffed, rolling his eyes. “Honest to god, sometimes I think I should just tie you up and gag you. Maybe blindfold you too like they do with skittish horses. Maybe then you’ll behave and stay still.”

Sherlock closed his laptop with a snap, finding it purposeless when he couldn’t concentrate, when he couldn’t think, “How…deviant of you,” was what tumbled from his mouth, covered with a throaty tone and followed by another throb of his erection. Hating himself, hating his stupid transport and it’s useless, and presently confusing needs, Sherlock got quickly to his feet and made a dash for the bathroom.

“Deviant?” He heard John echo in confusion, and then he followed Sherlock. Stalking close on his heels. Body heat and breath and scent bombarded Sherlock, swamped him, and he hunched against it before he stepped into the bathroom and slammed the door on John’s face. Knocking politely, John sighed through the door. “I'm not sure what's wrong, or why I'm deviant but er… hope you're alright.”

“I’m fine. Please go,” Sherlock said as he rushed to shut and lock the adjoining door to his bedroom. He stood back against the sink then, shaking in heightened arousal, and looked down at how his trousers were tented around his cramped and confined bulging erection. With a sneer, he glanced over his shoulder at the mirror, at his reflection, and found the redden flush to his cheeks, ears, and throat overly embarrassing, and so glared at himself heatedly. How had this happened? How had such simple things turned him on so quickly, so…painfully? John had touched him and breathed near him and strode around him half nude, many a time. So why _now_?

“Alright well… if you're sure. I'll be in my room then,” John said, and Sherlock listened as the man turned on his heel and walked away. Probably to contemplate Sherlock's odd behaviour.

Sherlock listened to him leave and to the creak of the stairs and then grimaced as he reached for his trousers, undoing them quickly, then pushing them to his ankles. His underwear followed, sodden with pre-ejaculate, and Sherlock took himself in hand as he sprang free. All he had to do was get rid of it. Get rid of the overwhelming, consuming heat of it all, and then things would be fine. Things could go back to normal. He’d be able to think again.

“I hate you,” Sherlock hissed, directing both his gaze and his words to the twitching shaft in his hand before he shuffled to lean over the toilet, stroking himself hurriedly, roughly. It was still warm in the bathroom. The walls still wet with moisture from John’s shower. Sherlock could smell him. Could smell John. He moaned at it in arousal, in frustration, in pure, overpowering want, and tried not to think about what John had done in here. Had he touched himself too? He often did when he showered. Often spent languid, teasing moments rubbing and fondling himself. Had it hit the tiles? The shower curtain? Was it still there somewhere, clinging to a corner in a musky heap?

With another moan, Sherlock adjusted his stance, Sherlock threw out his left hand and clawed at the beaded water on the wall, before pausing. He looked at his wet, shimmering palm, and then moved it to his erection, smearing water over the heated skin with a hitch and huff through his nose to ease the friction and hopefully double the pleasure.

First he tried to think of nothing, nothing but release, of wanting it, basking in it, but then his mind shifted and he thought of John’s breath on his neck, his fingers in his hair, the planes of his naked back and the flexing muscle beneath, and finally of his mouth, his smile, his ever-present loyalty and warm, arousing, familiar, glorious scent.

Sherlock shook and dropped his head forward, groaning lowly when his heart rate, breathing, and the scorching wanton desire skyrocketed, “Come on,” he grunted, harder and thicker and hotter in his hand than he ever remembered being before, but no closer to orgasm. “Come on!”

A loud knocking in the seconds that followed had Sherlock almost jumping out of his, itching, blazing skin, “, Sherlock? Are you alright? You sound in pain?”

Sherlock’s dick twitched in his hand as he jerked forward in surprise, his body shivering almost violently, “I thought you were going to your room? – Go away! Can’t a man have some privacy?” he shouted over the thrumming of his heart in his ears. He glanced down at his thighs, at how they quivered and tensed, at how his stomach was rhythmically shaking and frowned in both annoyance and desire. He was so close. So close. Closer with John so near, with his voice thrumming through the door.

“I thought you were hurt!” John huffed through the door. “You sounded hurt. – Do you want me to come in? Check you over?”

The thought of him coming and standing close and _breathing_ on Sherlock, made his knees buckle, “Oh God,” he whispered, scrambling to try and stay upright as he leaked more pre-ejaculate over his hand. Sherlock blinked down at the colour and state of his erection, finding that he was probably closer to climax than he’d been a few seconds ago. Just from the sound of him, from the thought. “N-no. No I don’t need…checking over.”

“You sound breathy and strained. Is it, um…do you need stool softener? I know you don't eat enough bran, and I have some tablets in my bag if you need them. I don't want you doing yourself damage,” John said sincerely.

Sherlock blinked, looking over at the door in first confusion and then amusement, a fondness building in his chest that only made his penis throb harder, “I’m not defecating, John…” he replied. “I…merely stubbed my toe. Again. This sink is…quite the hazard.”

“That’s because you stand too bloody close to it,” John sighed. “Right… well Okay. – Oh, and if you're going to have a bath now, or later today, please don't flood the bathroom again. It took days for the hall carpet to dry last time. I know you zone out into the mind palace but can you do it once the water is switched off please?”

Feeling a sting of mischievousness, shame, and eager longing jolt up his spine and through his hips, Sherlock continued to stroke himself, thinking of John and how it would feel, how it would sound, if he was speaking directly behind him, “Sorry, what did you say? I…didn’t catch that?” he asked, only slightly breathless, not too much to be exactly suspicious. God, was he really going to do this? It was _wrong_. It was… bad. It was _just_ what he needed.

“I said make sure you turn the water off if you're having a bath. I don't want you to soak the bloody carpet again! It took ages for the carpet to dry!” John repeated, sounding closer than before. Was he pressed to the wood? Were his lips at the door?

Sherlock let John’s voice consume him, let his imagination run wild, and stroked harder and faster, feeling the sharp, coiling twist of his orgasm from the tips of his toes, to the head of his dick, “What water?” he replied. He needed to keep John talking for just a moment longer. Needed to imagine the hair at his nape being tugged by his fingers, being blown by his breath. Just for a few moments more. Just until he could tip over the edge.

“The – The bloody bath water! Are you being deliberately dense?!” John shouted. “For God sake, will you decide whether you want to talk to me or not, slamming the door on me and then talking. Make your mind up!”

The edge and tone and volume of John’s voice shook up his body and Sherlock tipped his head back, closing his eyes and finally, finally, feeling the rush of climax. It rolled over him in crashing, devastating waves, and he was only barely aware of the loud, drawn-out groaning growl that escaped him as he spilled thick and fast over his own hand and the toilet. It felt good. Felt so good. Felt like no other high he’d experienced. It was pure and strong and unbearable, and much too short. Sherlock sighed shakily, his legs quaking, and looked down to find stripes of ejaculate glistening over the closed lid of the toilet.

“…Oh,” he muttered.

“Are you growling in there?” John asked, knocking on the door again. “The fuck are you doing?”

Sherlock gasped as his penis gave an eager tic, dribbling another small spurt of ejaculate onto his hand, “Nothing!” he replied, grabbing for the toilet roll and wadding up handfuls of it.

“You better not have hidden one of your experiments in there!” John said, pounding on the door. “If I've showered beside one of your gross creations then I'm going to punch you.”

Dabbing and wiping at his genitals, Sherlock then bent to clear the evidence from the toilet lid, the sides, and a bit of the floor, before he threw the tissues in the bin and pulled up his underwear and trousers, quickly doing them up with steadier fingers, “Oh go away, John!” he exclaimed with as much annoyance as he could muster through the rippling, pleasing aftershocks. When the last of it had dissipated, Sherlock felt hollow and guilty and awkward and stared at the tissues in the bin. He heard John mutter in the background and leave for his room once more, and sighed with a shiver. What had he done? This was going to change everything. Wasn’t it?


End file.
